Chapter 1
Fury surged through Dr. Joy Gilbert
like a rifle shot as she shut her office door and yanked the stethoscope
from around her neck, suppressing a rebel yell. She stormed to the wide
windows and sucked in her breath, ready to throw open the panes and
shock the world. But an inquisitive squirrel leapt from one branch to
another on a tree behind the clinic.
With a comical tilt of his head the furry critter broke the force of
her outrage. Joy released her breath and deflated. As a child, she’d
helped Mom bottle feed an orphaned gray squirrel, and the little thick-tailed
acrobat had often made her laugh.
Why scare the squirrels because she
was angry with the ridiculous accusations of a hostile patient? The
man was unbelievable.
Her intercom buzzed, jerking her back
to complete maturity.
“Dr. Gilbert, honey, you okay
in there?” It was Betty, her favorite nurse.
“Give me a sec—”
“The boss is on his way to the
clinic, sweetie. I want to rush Mr. Bezier out the door before he can
waylay Mr. Cline.”
Joy winced. Along with half the clinic
staff and several patients in the waiting room, Betty had clearly heard
Frank Bezier berating Joy for her refusal to write him a script for
a half-year’s supply of Percocet. He wouldn’t listen when
she explained that was illegal. Some people thought they were above
the law.
He had, in fact, loudly accused her
of using her physical attributes and other “abilities” to
land her job with Weston Cline “since you’re obviously an
incompetent physician.” The man was a bully.
“He’ll just call Weston later,”
she told Betty. “He has clout.” And Weston’s personal
cell phone number.
“Oh horse dumplings; the man’s
a legalized drug junkie and everyone knows it, including the boss. And
might I remind you that Mr. Cline hired you for your ability with patients?
Not anything else, and everybody here knows that, no matter what Mr.
Bossypants says.”
Joy closed her eyes in relief at her
nurse’s soothing words. No one in the clinic knew about the pains
she’d taken to keep Weston Cline’s hands off of her. All the
struggles growing up without a daddy could teach a girl a few hard lessons,
so she’d been prepared. Being accused of doing the very thing she’d
always sworn never to do before marriage had felt like a stab in her
gut with a butcher knife.
“You could fire him from your
service,” Betty said. “Send a letter and he’s out the
door in thirty days.”
“And then I’ll be out the
door.” Joy suspected Weston chose to advertise the clinic’s
willingness to take chronic pain patients in the first place because
it would ensure a fast growth rate. And it certainly had. “The
boss wants Bezier happy.”
“If you go out the door, so will
I, and so will half the staff. Mr. Cline knows better.”
“I’m not so sure. He wants
me to write more scripts for narcs.”
“You don’t want the state
medical board breathing down your neck for being overly generous with
controlled substances,” Betty reminded her.
Joy turned her back to the desk. She
refused to become a legal pusher. Where had her brain been the day she
agreed to work for a man who wanted her to put an emphasis on pain management?
No, wait, she hadn’t been thinking
with her brain last year. Weston Cline had the charisma of a world dictator,
and for a short time she’d allowed herself to be dazed by his sweet
words and the promise of a successful career—particularly after
Zack broke their engagement.
If only Weston wasn’t so damaged.
If only his character had been as solid as she’d believed it to
be in the beginning. Over the months she’d realized that the man
she’d thought he was had concealed his broken character by utilizing
his dynamic personality. He had plenty of that. His male magnetism that
had nearly been her undoing.
Mom taught Joy long ago that sweet
words and a handsome face might draw a woman to a man, but she’d
better be smart enough to hold him at arm’s length until she could
see the character beneath. That took longer.
While watching Weston promote the clinic
to the public, Joy had found that for him the game was all about making
people believe in the magic of narcotics. Money was his narcotic. He’d
failed the character test for Joy.
The hum of familiar voices drifted
through her closed door. There was a cry of a child and the clatter
of a computer keyboard, the laughter of a couple of the staff members
in the break room.
“Dr. Gilbert?” Her door opened,
the bottom of it brushing across carpet. She caught a whiff of Lindsey
Baker’s spicy perfume. The girl needed to be educated about patient
allergies and invasion of doctor privacy.
While Joy’s stomach growled because
of a missed lunch three hours ago, she reminded herself that her hometown
was just downriver, between Frankenstein and Hermann, Missouri. Not
that far, really, though it seemed a world away.
“Dr. Gilbert, it’s Sarah
Miller,” Lindsey said.
Joy turned immediately. Good. A real
patient. She reached for the file Lindsey held out to her.
“She’s in Two,” Lindsey
said in that timid, eager-to-please voice of a new-hire. This one was
especially young, with rich auburn curls and friendly, dark brown eyes.
Weston encouraged an attractive appearance
among the clinic’s staff members.
Once again drawn into the milieu of
work, Joy glanced at the information on the clipboard. She was halfway
down the hall, paging through the three-inch-thick stack of notes and
test results when a pair of polished black wingtips stepped into her
field of vision. She looked up into the cobalt gaze of her employer.
She should have been able to sense
his arrival by the suddenly hushed voices of staff, and the adoring—or
possibly fearful—glances from every woman in view, depending on
their status with him. Employees feared or worshiped him. Patients who
recognized his city-wide fame from the billboards practically genuflected
at his feet. The man had been featured in a regional magazine recently
for taking his family fortune and doubling it. Who besides Joy didn’t
worship the wealthy?
She’d overheard a couple of women
arguing in the waiting room one day over whether he looked more like
Hugh Jackman or Gerard Butler. Had Joy really once shared their admiration?
“Weston, hi. What brings you here
in the middle of the week?” She instinctively moved her hand to
cover the name on the file she carried—Sarah Miller was a pro bono
case. He would make no money from this one.
“Doesn’t a man have a right
to check on his business investment from time to time?” The intentionally
seductive depth of his voice and the gentle expression in his gaze assured
her he was presently relaxed. “I heard you haven’t taken a
lunch break. Why don’t we have Lindsey bring you a Reuben from
the deli? You can join me in my office while you eat and catch me up
on today’s progress.”
“That would be great if I had
time, but we’re a little swamped right now.” That should thrill
him. “Rain check?”
He glanced at the file in Joy’s
hand. “After this one?”
“Three more.”
He reached down and nudged her hand
from the name. He’d taken Joy to task more than once about “wasting
time with non-payers.” She could almost feel the temperature drop
in the room a couple of degrees.
At thirty-nine, Weston had flecks of
white at the temples of his night black hair, a neatly trimmed beard
and pinpoints of quicksilver in his blue eyes when he was upset.
That quicksilver gave a momentary flash.
“Joy.”
“This one’s in pain.”
He tapped the file folder. “This
one’s a hypochondriac.”
She glanced around and lowered her
voice. “I beg your pardon, but I’m the physician on this case.”
Since when did he get his degree? She swallowed. Had to remain calm.
“I have some unique cases that—”
“As you’ve pointed out to
me in the past, every case is unique.”
“This clinic is doing so well
after less than a year. It’s not hurting the bottom line to help
someone every now and then.” She held her breath.
His gaze softened, but remained on
her. The troubled questions in his eyes had haunted her for months.
As Bezier just finished trumpeting to the whole clinic, Weston had hinted
from time to time that he hoped for more than an employee relationship
from her when he brought her to Kansas City. At one point, when they
met after clinic hours to discuss strategies, she’d almost weakened.
Why save herself for marriage when the only man she’d ever loved
had broken their engagement? When it seemed the whole world believed
in the joys of matrimony without the contract—when her own mother
had obviously weakened at one point long enough to become pregnant with
her out of wedlock—why had she pushed back so hard every time a
man tried to push her into bed?
Just in time she’d realized that
no woman could give Weston what he truly needed, because the great Weston
Cline, sole heir to the Cline family fortune, had a heart so wounded
he could barely function emotionally. Losing a child could do that to
a parent.
Weston’s ex-wife, Sylvia, claimed
his heart was forged in ice and stone, but every so often Joy saw something
different in his expression, heard it in his voice, sometimes in his
words. There was no denying he’d been a lonely child, and she knew
about the tragedy of his younger brother’s death when Weston was
eleven.
That might explain why his relationship
with his mother was always so strained, but Joy had stopped herself
from following that rabbit trail before becoming too involved with his
private life. That could give him the wrong impression. Sometimes she
really did follow in her mother’s old habits and attempt to soothe
the woes of the world. It wouldn’t be wise to encourage Weston
to get the wrong impression.
“I have a patient, Weston.”
She tried to step around him.
He didn’t move.
She pressed between him and the hallway
wall, retaining as much dignity as possible. How she wished this man
didn’t control her life so completely, as Mom had warned her he
would.
Sometimes it seemed as if Molly Gilbert
had ways of reaching across the distance to make her daughter pay for
the choices she’d made that Mom—and by implication, God—had
not condoned.
She entered the exam room, shutting
Weston out so she could focus on one of her favorite patients. “How
are you doing, Sarah?”
Pale of hair and eyes, Sarah Miller
met Joy’s gaze with a tentative nod.
A wise professor had once taught that
if physicians would listen longer to the patients, those very patients
could provide missing puzzle pieces for their own diagnoses. Oh, for
the luxury of time. Joy loved listening. But with Sarah, Joy had realized
many weeks ago that it was necessary to know more than the information
on the chart.
“Haven’t been sleeping?”
Joy sat on the chair in front of the computer and studied the notes
the nurse had made.
Sarah looked up and shook her head.
Today her eyes were more gray than green, a sure sign she didn’t
feel well, though her vitals were solid. Her translucent skin was paler
than usual, her mouth more rigid. She put Joy in mind of a prisoner
who hadn’t seen the sun in years.
“What’s wrong, Sarah? Betty
said you wouldn’t talk to her about why you’re here.”
“That’s because last time
I was here I think someone told the rest of the staff that I asked for
a colonoscopy; they were all snickering at me from behind the Plexiglas
when I walked out the door.” There was reproach in her soft voice.
Joy knew Betty wouldn’t do that,
but after being fired from the services of two other physicians, Sarah
was gun shy.
“Tell me what’s going on
with you today,” Joy asked, leaning forward, keeping eye contact.
“Is your stomach still causing you trouble?”
“Yes, but that’s not what
I came for.” With a sigh, Sarah pointed to her nose. “Could
this be melanoma?”
Joy nudged Sarah’s finger away
and examined the worrisome spot. It was tiny, with even color and edges.
“Can you tell, Dr. Gilbert?”
Sarah’s breath sounds were irregular, with underlying fear—irrational,
erratic, intense—that had characterized her visits since she’d
become a patient here seven months ago. “I know how fast those
things can grow.”
Joy took Sarah’s hands, feeling
the frailness of her bones. It would take a lot of work to allay the
real fears that stalked this otherwise rational, intelligent twenty-four-year-old.
“What you have is a freckle.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “But
it’s right there on the end of my nose, where the sun hits it.”
“The way you slather yourself
with sun block, and at your age, I don’t think you’ll have
a problem with melanoma. I can biopsy the spot if you’re horribly
worried about it, but we don’t want an unnecessary scar to mess
up that flawless complexion.”
Sarah’s gamine features scrunched.
“Am I being a hypochondriac again?”
“Not at all. There’s a problem,
and you need treatment, but—”
The phone on the desk buzzed, and Lindsey’s
voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Gilbert, there’s a call
for you. Sounds urgent. It’s a Dr. Zachary Travis from—”
“Take a message, please.”
Joy said the words before the name registered, and she struggled mightily
to maintain a professional demeanor in the presence of her patient.
Oxygen refused to enter her lungs for a brief moment. Zack? Why would
he be calling here? And now, after all this time?
“But he says it’s important,”
Lindsay continued. “It’s an emergency and I’ve got him
on hold.”
Joy snatched up the receiver with one
hand while holding up a finger for Sarah—a silent apology. “Lindsay,
remember when we discussed this a couple of weeks ago? Unless the building’s
on fire, all calls can wait.” But everything within her wanted
to take the call. Zack hadn’t contacted her since breaking the
engagement. Why now? “Take a message, please.”
She disconnected and selected a preprinted
sheet from a rack of brochures on the wall, then turned back to Sarah.
“I’ve spoken about your situation with a colleague of mine,
who is a trusted friend. I’ve not given her your name. I won’t
do that without your permission.”
Sarah’s face reddened. “You’re
not going to see me anymore.”
“Yes I am. As I said, all your
physical findings are normal.” Joy gave her patient a tender smile.
“That doesn’t rule out a concern I have for you. Dr. Myra
Maxwell and I attended the same medical school, and then she continued
her education in psychiatry.”
Those soft eyes, which had held trust
for Joy after their first encounter, filled instead with hurt confusion.
Joy slid the brochure into Sarah’s
hands. “She and I both feel she can help you, and she’s the
best.”
The flush on Sarah’s face lightened
a little as she studied the glossy tri-fold that exhibited Myra Maxwell’s
picture. Straight, black hair and the tanned olive tones of her skin
showed a Cherokee heritage. Joy recalled the day they’d both gone
to have professional photos taken. Nothing Joy did would bring a smile
to Myra’s face so soon after the tragedy.
There was an infinitesimal slump of
Sarah’s shoulders. Silence.
Joy scooted to the periphery of her
patient’s personal space, took in the clenched fingers, the wobbling
chin. “Sarah, I found out what happened to you. Because of that,
your mind can better cope with physical disorders than with the memories.”
For a moment, the only sounds in the
exam room were the buzz of the wall clock and the muted rainfall on
the roof of the building. The murmur of voices from the outer office
filtered through the closed door. Joy watched the delicate rise in the
center of Sarah’s throat, strong emotions trying to fight their
way out.
“How do you know about that?”
Sarah’s voice barely rose above the patter of raindrops.
“Research. I went to the Corrigan
Times and found the front-page story about the attack on you and your
husband.”
A glimmer of moisture threatened tears.
The pale blonde brows drew together. The lines of Sarah’s face
scrunched like a child’s.
“Sarah, you experienced a living
nightmare.”
The slender shoulders jerked in a single,
powerful spasm, eyes squeezed shut tightly, hands grasping the chair
arms. “I can’t do this.”
“You can’t continue as you
have. You’re not dealing with the original injury, so you will
persist in having physical manifestations of—”
Sarah jumped up. “I can’t,
Dr. Gilbert. I’m sorry.” She grabbed her purse, pulled open
the door, and nearly collided with Weston. The brochure floated to his
feet.
Joy followed her out. “Sarah,
please.”
But the patient kept going. When Joy
tried to follow, Weston blocked her. “You’re not her mother,
Dr. Gilbert.”
Something cracked inside her. She gritted
her teeth, knowing that if she spoke her mind at this moment she would
most certainly lose her job.
He leaned close enough that his mouth
was within inches of her ear. “You have paying patients waiting
for weeks to get an appointment with you. If you continue your present
practice of medicine, there will soon be no clinic to treat anyone.”
Joy stepped away from him and met his
gaze. “We both know how much money this place brings in.”
She whispered the words for his ears only.
His lids fluttered down for an instant,
then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Silence filled the
hallway around them. “You’re forgetting who owns this place
that pays your generous salary.”
He was right, and she knew it. Time
to tread carefully. She ducked beneath his arm and headed to her office,
but she heard the sound of his footsteps as he followed her. This discussion
wasn’t over.